


Basil and the Amaranthine's Shadow

by Waistcoat35



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Amaranthine, Gen, Immortal, Mystery, casefic, gmd - Freeform, sinister - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Mousedom is baffled at the theft of random, often seemingly worthless objects. At first the occurences seem to be the work of an amateur with no set motive, but being sucked into the mystery leads Basil and Dawson into a dangerous game of mice who walk without shadows, and beauty that is only skin-deep... Mousedom is to be overtaken once again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

It was the 6th of July in 1897, on a regular Tuesday morning...

I stand corrected, a morning regular to anybody used to the somewhat queer habits of one Basil of Baker Street. It was hard to believe that, just two weeks prior, I had only just met Basil for the first time - I had moved in officially the day after Queen Mousetoria gave us her personal thanks, the day on which we began our investigation into the disappearance of Miss Jenkinson's emerald ring. I had been staying over for the time being to ensure Basil had recovered fully from his ordeal, as he refused a clinic and I was the only one qualified enough for medical prodecures whom he would allow to come anywhere near. I have no doubt any private doctor prepared to come over would be able to stand more than five minutes in Basil's company, what with his irritable manner and scathing deductions, frequently about the social lives of other mice.

I descended the stairs to find Basil already in his armchair, staring broodingly into the fireplace with an untouched cup of tea beside him. I have no doubt he would have woken me far earlier by playing the violin without a moment's rest at some impossibly high pitch, but he was still searching for another at a price he could afford, as his former one was damaged beyond repair. At first I had pitied the fellow, but after a while his ceaseless complaining had begun to vex me.

"Something the matter, old chap?" I asked him warily - Basil could be terribly snappy when a case was particularly perplexing him. I needn't worry about it too much this time, though.

Basil sighed, sipping the tea and making a face of disgust as he realized it was stone cold - as if that wouldn't be obvious, judging from how many hours he had probably sat there. He picked up today's Illustrated Londonmouse and tossed it to me, glaring at it as if the headline were the cause of his dilemma. I scanned the front page article, picking out the headline in bold.

"Motives of Larceny Perplex Scotland Yard

On Monday evening at approximately eleven o clock, the workshop of Harold Porter was broken into and several materials used in his trade stolen. Mr. Porter has not yet disclosed exactly what was stolen, but the question Scotland Yard is asking is: What on earth would possess a thief to take merely a few materials among many valuable instruments, some worth a small fortune?"

I turned back to Basil, who was watching intently to see my reaction. "Well, if I am honest, this is an odd business." I admitted. "But what was the mouse's trade - what nature were the instruments of?"

Basil looked both pleased and slightly exasperated. "Now you're asking the right questions! I can't yet figure out the thief's motives because the instruments really were just that - musical instruments, mostly violins. It sounds as though the thief has taken some sort of material used for the crafting of them, but as Scotland Yard is wondering - although Scotland Yard is easily baffled by many things - is why would this thief merely take a few materials? Mr. Porter manufactures instruments, foremostly violins, and some of the instruments in his workshop really are worth a fortune - I recognised the name as I was looking into buying one from him just last week, but a consulting detective's salary does not cover such indulgences - especially when said detective has recently had to replace no less than ten feather pillows within a fortnight!"

I chuckled at this. "Still not found a replacement violin, old chap?" He shook his head, looking dejected. I patted him on the shoulder. "Not to worry, I'm sure you'll find one soon. In the meantime, if you're so curious about this theft, why don't we go and enquire Mr. Porter ourselves?"

Basil immediately perked up, shooting out of his armchair and seemingly changing into full detective gear within seconds. My protests about breakfast first were drowned out by his exclamations of enthusiasm - it didn't surprise me, Basil never did seem to eat or even sleep much on cases. I sighed and resigned myself to putting on my coat and cap, allowing myself to be dragged out through the door by an impatient Basil shouting to Mrs. Judson that we should be back in time for lunch - not that he would eat any.

"Come now, Dawson, look lively - the game is afoot!"


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hurt/comfort to fill the gaps.

I huffed, partly due to lack of breath and partly due to frustration, as I hurried to keep up with the detective. When he is bored, he has two moods - agitated and unresponsive. He either paces everywhere complaining loudly of his woe and generally being a hindrance, or he lazes about and refuses to socialise or even venture out until he gets a new case. When he is in possession of a new case, he has two speeds - fast and stop. And when I say fast, I do not say it in jest - I mean fast.

Basil's stride increased tenfold as he spotted a hansom just about to pull away from the corner of Paddington Street. I was forced to almost sprint beside him, as he leapt onto the step just in time and hauled me up with him as the hansom set off.

As we adjusted to the jolting motion of the horse pulling the cab, Basil settled himself on the edge of the step, legs swinging quite recklessly, making me concerned that he may fall. I warned him as such, but he brushed off with a slight scoff.

"Not to worry, old chap - I've been through far worse than falling off a hansom step, anyhow."

"Indeed you have, my good fellow, but I would still hate for you to fall! Do be careful, in any case."

He sighed, as if my constant concerns vexed him. My ears lowered slightly - I much dislike displeasing my friend - there's something about him which makes you feel terribly guilty when you do so, but when he praises you you can't help but feel rather good. He must have noticed my downcast expression, for he softened his gaze slightly and placed a hand on my arm. We sat side by side, both of us now hanging over the edge of the step, in companionable silence for several streets, before Basil spoke.

"My... apologies, old boy. I am all too aware of your concerns for me, and I thank you for them - I know I can be irritable and hard to get on with sometimes - ah, don't deny it." He raised a hand to silence me as I had opened my mouth to protest.

"You know it to be true as well as I do. I suppose..." His ears had lowered slightly, as if he were slightly unsure about what to say next. I motioned for him to go on, watching him patiently as he struggled with whatever it was he wanted to say.

"I suppose, really, that the reason I hold so little concern for myself and dismiss the concerns of others is because, really, I'm not particularly used to the whole thing. In case you haven't noticed, I tend to rub mice up the wrong way - it's just in my nature, really. I still push others away because, after all these years of solitude, I still cannot fathom the concern that you hold for me and thus dismiss it at groundless. No mouse has ever had a reason to be concerned about my wellbeing so far, so to have such a thing now is actually... Rather daunting, to be honest."

It was rare for Basil to speak of his insecurities, so I was slightly surprised by this but at the same time pleased that he placed enough trust in me to consider me a worthy confidant. I slowly reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, as he turned to look at me, unspoken fears lurking behind his eyes. I think that he feared - maybe still does fear - abandonment. If what he says is true and he has had few, if any, friends in his life then it is unsuprising that he fears losing the ones he has managed to gain.

I tried to convey in my gaze all that I wished to say aloud but had a feeling would embarass him. That I would never leave him for anything, I would always be there - that he could trust me. In the end, I decided I'd better say something.

"Old boy, you do deserve to have the concern of others, you know. It is true, in a way, that you are not always the easiest mouse to live with - but I wouldn't have things any other way. You do have friends to confide in, and always will."

He looked at me, seeming oddly touched - what he doesn't say I think is reflected in his eyes. Those bright green eyes buzzing with intelligence and vigour.

"I- Well, I suppose what I mean to say is... Thank you, Dawson. It's- It's nice to know that I have somebody to confide in." He stammered slightly, granting me one of those rare smiles that only break across his face when he is truly touched, or in a moment of rare contentment. I returned the smile, hand tightening on his shoulder.

Then, the hansom juddered to a halt, and the moment skidded to an end as we departed from the step, back into the world of detatched, clinical deductions and intense enquiries.

It was time to get on with the mystery.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to a luthier by the name of Mr Harold Porter gets our duo on the track to solving the case.

After dismounting our hansom, we headed down Marylebone Road for a short distance before turning off onto Paddington Street, the corner of which was the location of the establishment we were visiting. We passed several young street mice playing on the paving slabs, as well as several food vendors. The smell of fresh pastries reminded me yet again of the fact that I had missed breakfast, but my friend was insistent we carry on - now you may see what I mean about his brisk manner during cases.

We mice are usually insinuated to be meek and timid, and many of us do in fact fit this mould. However, Basil seems to be a kind all his own - something of an outlier. No placid and forbearing creature is he - Basil possesses the heart of a lion and the pride of a king. He strides through the street urchins as though there were no obstacle in his path in the first place, his green eyes full of a fierce light - the light found in one who has finally found his place in the world and will defend that place to the death. That light was there when I met him - but for unfathomable reasons it had brightened considerably in recent weeks...

Basil holds no interest in small talk, and when he has nothing he views as important to say he is silent as we walk. Most would think him rude or shy of talking to others, but in reality it is just that he only speaks when he has something worth saying. I cannot object, as I usually engage in idle conversation with those I know, but around Basil I do not feel obliged to speak. While there are many things communicated between us, they rarely need to be said aloud - not just because he is perceptive enough to know what I am communicating, but because the greatest words of friendship and love are usually the unspoken ones.

We finally reached the corner of Paddington Street, and my friend paused at an odd-looking door fixed into the wall. It seems to have the faint outline of an oriental dragon etched into the wood, and it is painted a maroon colour. A sign hangs up above the door, with the golden words "Harold Porter: Luthier and Oddity Collector" adorning it in a grand font. Basil rapped on the door sharply five times, the knocks reverberating as his fist connects with the varnished wood.

After a few moments, the door swung open smoothly, stirring up a slight flurry of dust upon the floor, which was also of varnished wood. The shop was lit with several gas lights around the walls, filling the room with a warm glow, in which was cast the shadow of the mouse in front of us, still holding the door open. His fur was a mottled russet colour, several patches clumped together with dried varnish and his whiskers had the occasional dusting of a strange red substance. His build bore something of a resemblance to Mr. Flaversham's, but he lacked a moustache or any extra facial fur. His cheekbones seemed more rounded than those of most male mice, with bushy tufts of fur at them. His eyes were a rich, warm hazel colour, and they seemed to hold an enchantment with something, but what I didn't yet know.

Basil gave a nod in the mouse's direction, stepping over the threshold and glancing around the small shop space. "Good morning,Mr Porter. I trust you have been expecting us?"

The mouse nodded. "Indeed I have. I would have sent for you, but I daren't leave my shop again - if something were to happen to my instruments, I would be undone! I had a feeling that you would turn up sooner or later, Mr Basil - Scotland Yard is simply flummoxed, and I know of no other who can be of greater help to my case!"

I could see the slight pleasure that flattery brings to Basil's eyes - he is no real show off nor is he particularly egotistical, let me assure you of that, but he takes a certain pleasure in appreciation of his work and complimentation of his skills. He inclined his head in understanding. "I am aware of your plight, Mr Porter - I myself am - was - rather attached to my own violin - it would not be well for your instruments to come to harm. It would seem that Scotland Yard cannot solve every puzzle, which is the reason for my coming. After all, if they were as competent as they would like to believe they are then I would be quite out of a job."

I gave a quiet chuckle at that, and Harold Porter turned his gaze to me as though he had only just noticed my prescence - who knows, maybe he had. At that time it was still not known by all that Basil of Baker Street had acquired a partner.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to show us to the scene of the crime? I believe the break-in occurred within your workshop." Basil, of course, was eager to get down to business. Then he checked himself momentarily. "Of course, my apologies - this is my associate, Dr Dawson; he assists me with all of my cases and is a most valuable asset."

Perhaps I cannot say much about my friend's susception to flattery - I have to admit that my own face must have positively glowed at his comment. It is nice to know when one is useful - I rarely seem to see myself as such, what with my lack in speed compared to Basil's and my apparent tendency to lose either criminals or children, a trait of which I am rather ashamed.

The luthier shook my hand, obviously now in a hurry to get the case solved. "Oh, yes, of course, of course. Pleasure to meet you, old chap. Now, if you would come this way, gentlemen?" Basil strode forward after the mouse straight away, but I lingered a few moments longer to glance around the shop. It was filled with instruments and the odd curiosity - several trinket boxes with unusual carvings on them in languages I could not understand, some vases which appeared to have oriental patterns on them, and... The violins.

The place was simply filled with them - they were carefully positioned on stands throughout the room, the varnished wood giving them an elegant sheen in the light of the gass fittings. I am not one for sounding poetic in my writings and words, but I mean it when I say that you could almost hear their tones and melodies, tunes played in the past and tunes yet to be played, haunting forgotten works never to be played again.

Among the gleaming instruments, there was one in particular that stood out - among the usual vibrant red-brown of the violins, there was just one that was a slightly darker shade. I recognised that it had not been made out of the maple or spruce wood usually used for the manufacture of violins - Basil had once told me all about the art of the business in a fit of boredom - it looked like rosewood. There was still a mild reddish hue, but it was mostly a fairly dark, almost chocolate brown colour. The strings looked gossamer-thin in the lighting, and it was accompanied with an elegant bow which had a roaring lion carved into the very end of the handle. I shook my head in wonderment at the object, and just for a moment I could almost picture it resting on Basil's shoulder, the bow in his hand, gliding up and down the violin as he played one of his new compositions. I knew it would be perfect for my friend - and yet, I couldn't dream of what sort of price range we would be looking at for it. From the quality of the instrument and the prices on some of the other artifacts in the shop, I wouldn't even be able to go halves with Basil on the asking price...

My train of thought was diverted when Basil peered around the doorframe, looking around for me until his eyes settled on my form standing in the corner, still staring at the violin incredulously. He didn't notice the instrument I was beside as he motioned me inside, the gesture slightly jaunty with irritation.

"Dawson, come on, old fellow! Our crime scene awaits!" I blinked as I took in what he was saying, then scrambled to follow after him up a flight of stairs and into the dimly-lit workshop. The workshop was not particularly disorderly - it looked like whoever had entered had known exactly what they were after and where it was. There was no sign of a struggle to enter, so I wondered how it was classed as a break-in as well as larceny - I couldn't clearly see where the intruder has entered from - most would simply say the door, but as Basil keeps telling me, the most obvious answer is not always the right one. I may as well apply it.

Basil was now intently examining some footprints by a workbench, the same colour as the reddish substance in Mr Porter's whiskers. He muttered something that I couldn't quite hear.

"I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that, old fellow."

"Cinnabar, Dawson! That's what this substance is. Sometimes used in the lacquer on violins."

"But I thought you said most luthiers use varnish nowadays?"

"Ah, I can explain that." Mr Porter edged over to us. "You see, this business was originally my father's, and he was something of a stickler for tradition - he preferred using older methods in violin making, and so he preferred to use lacquer on his works. Not the most practical any more, I know, but I didn't like to change his way of doing things now that he's gone - it wouldn't feel quite right, you understand."

Basil nodded. He once mentioned to me that the pipe he uses was his father's, and before that his grandfather's - it was originally the pipe used by his great-grandfather, passed down. He would never hear of getting a new one, even though his was getting extremely worn and it was slightly too large for him - he sometimes claims that he has no place for sentiment, but I know that isn't true. Else why would he have held onto that old pipe for so long?

I was still perplexed about the footprints - mainly because they weren't just normal footprints. There were two patches of cinnabar dustings directly in front of the workbench holding the cinnabar tin, which outlined the shape of two shoes. An imprint, if you will.

"Basil, why on earth are there only the outlines of the feet, with dustings around the edges? And why are there only those two?"

He turned to look at me, evidently pleased. "As I said this morning, Dawson, you're finally asking the right questions! You see," He got that look in his eyes that is bestowed upon him whenever he gets to talk about his deductions, "I have deduced that the thief didn't want to remove the whole tin of cinnabar, as our client here would surely notice right away, since he frequently uses the material in his work. He wanted to empty about three-quarters of the tin, which had only just been opened, so he could take more from it and still leave a decent quantity. He or she hoped that Mr Porter would just think he had used up the contents himself, so they emptied the cinnabar into a container or pouch of their own. The substance sticks to the tin fast, so they had to shake it and possibly tap it to get enough out - this stirred up the cinnabar dust around the edge of the tin, which coated their shoes and the area around them, but left the area their soles were covering untouched. From the looks of the spot where the soles were I would say their shoes were the hand-tailored kind, but not custom - they made them themselves, possibly out of a pair of human kid gloves - some mice with a tighter budget who have such supplies do so. They would make the minimum amount of noise, too. Usually the only places such gloves are found where no human will notice their abscence are in an attic and such, or possibly..."

Basil paused his monologue for a second, thinking hard. "A jumble shop! Brilliant! They could get things from the odds-and-ends boxes in shadowy corners, and as such places are often little-known and not often frequented, it would be the perfect place to hide out. Most of them have a basement for sorting through flawed or newly arrived goods, which is most likely our location. Back to the shoes - the thief is most likely male due to the stronger imprint of the soles, with no extra dust marring the edges. Males generally lean their full weight on the ground, while females generally keep slightly higher up on their toes, so there would be a slight gap beneath the sole where more dust could get under. Older mice have a greater tendency to let their tails drag, and there is no imprint of part of his tail in the dust - that means he is most likely a younger male, perhaps in his twenties to early thirties."

My friend looked like the cat who'd gotten the custard, if you'll pardon my turn of phrase. He straightened up and cleared his throat. "Well, I have an idea of who we are looking for - a fairly tall young male mouse, possibly with shabbier or homemade clothing or shoes. If he were shorter, then his tail would still drag a little, returning to my earlier point. I may need time to think on his points of entry and exit, but I believe that's enough for you to be looking out for for today. Good day, Mr Porter."

The luthier stepped forward and finally managed to close his mouth - it had been gaping open in astonishment throughout Basil's deductions. "But - wait! Why on earth would they go to such trouble to get a bit of cinnabar? It can be valuable, but since lacquer is rarely made with it now and there are not many other uses for it, surely they wouldn't just sell it?"

I saw Basil's eyes narrow in irritation. It vexes him to have to admit when he doesn't know something. "I'm afraid that is one other thing I still need to figure out," He admitted after some hesitation. "I shall need some more time to mull over our evidence. Come Dawson, we must be going." With that, Basil turned smartly on his heel and strode out.

I looked around again for a few moments to check for anything else that looked suspicious, but could see nothing. I tipped my hat to Mr Porter with a smile, an unspoken apology for my friend's brusque conclusion, and followed Basil out.

When I entered the main shop once again I was met with the sight of Basil staring, as if transfixed, at the violin that had been the object of my attention earlier on. He ran his hands lightly over the bow, testing how supple it was with an expert eye. He didn't pick up the violin, although he ran his hands down its sides, as if he were afraid it would shatter in his hands. I could see his love for the object, and I despaired at it - it was clear he longed for the beautiful instrument, but I doubted either he nor I could afford it. He saw me watching from the corner of his eye, and I had a feeling he did not want me to see him in such a state of longing - he views such things as sentiment, which he claims to have none of. I tactfully stepped outside to wait for him, and as I waited with the door ajar I could just hear him enquire as to the price. I didn't hear Mr Porter's reply, but the range must have been as I feared as he left with shoulders slightly slumped and disappointment in his eyes, though he tried to act as if nothing was wrong. I sympathised with him, although he would not appreciate me saying so. For Basil, music is his way of best expressing his emotions - when unable to make music, he is unable to deal with those emotions in the only way he seems to know how. The bow and instrument are almost like extensions of his arms. Maybe I can find some way to get him a new violin - but I must face the fact that he will never look at any I can get him the way he looked at that one.

He repeated his earlier phrase, his voice almost wobbly.

"Come, Dawson - we must be getting home."


End file.
